“The prayer hall isn’t very impressive. It would be hard to believe an object of worldwide importance was being kept there.”
“And you say Malik found it in the Kariye Mosque? Did he say where he found it?”
“No. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in one of those tunnels or cisterns that seem to honeycomb all those old churches.”
“Perhaps,” Ismail Hodja said thoughtfully. “But that would be like hiding a grain of sand beneath a dune. Whoever hid it four hundred years ago wanted it to be found, but not by the wrong people.”
“And probably a little sooner.”
“Did he say what was in the reliquary?”
“A document written in Aramaic.”
Ismail Hodja closed his eyes and laid his hand across his beard. He was silent for a long while. “It must be the real thing,” he said at last. “There’s no other explanation.” He looked at Kamil, eyes shining with delight. “Until now, this has been nothing more than an interesting tale with no ending. Now a new chapter is being written. You cannot imagine how important this document is, Kamil. I would do anything to read it. I’m one of the few people in the empire who can read the old languages.”
“What does Aramaic look like?”
Ismail Hodja took a leather box from a cabinet and opened it. He handed Kamil a piece of parchment covered with angular writing. “It’s a copy, so don’t worry about handling it.”
Kamil studied it. “It looks a little like Arabic, but I can’t make out anything.”
“It’s a distant ancestor of the Arabic alphabet. Few people today can read it.”
“Malik was training his niece to read it. She’s the next priestess.”
“That would make sense. He was preparing her to lead under these new circumstances. Whoever possesses the Proof will be immensely powerful. She must understand it to wield it properly.”
“Because it works miracles?” Kamil couldn’t keep the skepticism from his voice.
“No. I don’t believe that. But they say it proves the existence of Allah for all religions and all doubters.”
“Even me?”
Ismail Hodja smiled. “Even you, my son.”
“Well, now I’m even more anxious to get hold of it.” Kamil laughed, his mood suddenly exuberant. He reined in his voice, worried about such inappropriate behavior when he should be mourning.
“All of our great religions flourish from the same trunk, a single vast tree inhabited by the spirit of Allah. Nevertheless every branch and leaf believes itself distinct.”
“And we’re busy killing each other to prove it.” Kamil imagined an enormous oak tossing violently.
“Not everyone, thanks be to Allah. I’ve read your friend Malik’s writings. He was truly a scholar and a friend of peace. He called for an ecumenical council that issued joint decisions, ecumenical fat-was, about what he called shared truths. Some of the religious scholars agreed, or at least respected him for trying. Others, as you can imagine, weren’t happy with the notion of sharing their authority.”
“Unhappy enough to wish him harm?” And destroy something they thought might undermine their authority. But Malik had told no one outside his family about it, besides Kamil.
“I don’t think so,” Ismail Hodja guessed. “As long as he just wrote tracts, he was harmless. But with the actual Proof in his hands, he would be much more of a threat. People might have left their own religions to follow him, like a prophet. It’s happened before. Very dangerous, indeed. The reliquary was stolen, you say?”
He wondered whether it would betray Malik’s confidence to tell Ismail Hodja the rest. Malik was dead, he reminded himself, and there was nothing to fear from the scholar.
“The reliquary that was stolen was empty. The actual Proof was in a lead liner that Malik had taken out.”
“So the Proof itself wasn’t stolen?”
Kamil wondered at the excitement in the sheikh’s voice. “What is it exactly?” Kamil asked.
“They say a prophecy of some kind. If only I could read it,” Ismail Hodja added wistfully. “So close.” He sought Kamil’s eye. “If you find it, may I have the honor of seeing it?”
“I don’t know, hodjam,” Kamil said reluctantly. “I promised Malik I would keep its existence secret and, if I locate it, to give it to Saba.”
Ismail Hodja nodded, unable to hide his disappointment. “I understand. That’s admirable of you, Kamil. Perhaps Saba will allow me a glimpse.”
“Of course, since you already know about it, it wouldn’t be breaking a confidence.”
“No matter. What will you do now?”
Kamil thought for a moment. “If you know about the Proof of God, then others must know about it too.”
“Tantalizingly small fragments of copies made by the Chora monks have turned up in Europe. Some scholars know of these.”
“Scholars aren’t usually thieves.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Ismail Hodja gave a self-deprecating smile. “But it’s certain they like to talk.”
“How much do you think European dealers would pay for something like this?”
Kamil saw a range of emotions chase across the old scholar’s face: thoughtfulness, a stunned realization, concern.
He laid his long fingers on Kamil’s arm. “It’s not the dealers you should worry about. There are groups whose hunger for the Proof of God goes back hundreds of years, just like the Melisites. People who believe the Proof is the Ark of the Covenant or a rich treasure, or any number of ignorant legends. If their members heard it had been found, they’d stop at nothing to get it. They’d never sell it. It would simply disappear.”
In the phaeton on the way home, Kamil considered the remarkable story of the Proof of God. He reminded himself that, fascinating though it was, it might be nothing more than a story. His real concern was the plague of thefts that were endangering the tenuous peace in the streets of the empire and the deadline Nizam Pasha had given him. The riot in front of the Aya Sofya and the melee by the Kariye Mosque showed there could be worse to come. If the Proof of God helped him break the case, it was worth pursuing. If not, he would have to seek out more promising avenues. He had only five more days.
He lit a cigarette. His mind felt sharp as a diamond, but multifaceted, as if on the stage of his thoughts, several plays were being acted out simultaneously.
When he pulled up in his circular drive, he remained in the phaeton, staring at his house. The light of the lamps breathed in and out. A great sadness came to sit in his chest, crushing his breath. Sadness for Malik. For his father. For his mother, whose spirit he still caught out of the corner of his eye, in her bedroom, which was now his study, in the garden. He used to imagine her gentle voice in his head, but now he couldn’t remember what she sounded like. He sorrowed for a loss greater than he could explain.
He looked down and saw Yakup’s concerned face.
Yakup held up the lamp. “Bey?”
Kamil climbed out of the phaeton, but found his sense of balance was distorted. He reluctantly accepted Yakup’s arm to get into the house, then staggered up the stairs to his bedroom. He disrobed and fell from the long succession of waking hours into sleep.
18
The blackness was so thick he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or not. The leaden weight of his hands and tongue was gone. He was naked. He could feel the air caressing his skin, then a breath or a hand-he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was nothing. A dream. He dozed, then woke again. The darkness over him seemed thicker and his body had begun to glow in a slow, molten way, though it emitted no light. He felt it expand, first his chest and thighs, then his organ. His tongue swelled and thrust from his mouth. His back arched. His hands reached up to push against the blackness riding him and cupped two breasts, their nipples lying in his palms like pebbles. Kamil’s eyes tore open. He bucked, but the center of his body was no longer his. She had taken possession even of his voice, hoarse and strangled with lust until he brayed and lost consciousness. He remembered the nacreous gleam of a woman’s back stained by a long smudge like a feather.